tea-and-typos

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Day 90

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I was born to behold pretty things, not to be one myself. I was born to pick up rocks and smell fresh picked mint. I was born to kick pinecones and lay in the grass. I was supposed to watch the sunset and look for falling stars. I was supposed to brush the fur of animals and appreciate the horizon. I was made to love the way the trees look reflected in cold water and I was made to toss rocks at my reflection to watch the rings dance away. As for being a pretty thing? That’s not my life’s pursuit. I wasn’t born for that. I don’t get half as much pleasure from perfection in the mirror as I do form perfection elsewhere. It suits me better to be an admirer than to seek admiration. It suits me better to look at other people’s faces rather than my own. I get more joy in the seeing of a pretty landscape than in the pleasing of people I don’t know. I know where I like to spend my time and energy. It’s not on acting pretty. 

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The only existing recording of this song is terrible in quality, so I tried my best to clean it up in Audacity. 

This has to be one of my favorite Phil Ochs songs, so I’m very sad that this is the only recording. Lyrics under the cut

Keep reading

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Jill McDonough, I Imagine the Butches‘ Stripper Bar

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see i do already have a poem about gender only its terrible and i hate it and ive only read it twice in my life but potentially i cld frankenstein it into a new poem about gender im trying to write

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to the sea by Anis Mojgani

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ghazal for nol collective, december 2023 elisa chavez

When I want to be a new woman, I try new clothes. They're a charm against sorrow. A passport, new clothes,

they're a sealskin that lets me slip out of a man's grasp, or a nation's. I wish, and my browser brews clothes.

Women long ago learned to hide stories in cloth. Think the tignon. Think occupied Paris. A used thobe,

in the right artist's hands, can smuggle history over borders. A miracle, like a few loaves.

Facing arrest, I slipped into my grandmother's  jacket. I sang to the cops. No gun–I drew clothes.

The recipe calls for herbs I can't find. "Mulled wine: Gather star anise, orange zest, and whole stewed cloves."

In the aisle, I see the olive grove I googled– a woman's face, sobbing. She's frozen in new throes

of grief, embracing one ragged trunk like a child. Like a girl dragged on back of a bike to–who knows?

When speaking burns your fingers, you learn to forget. You blanch. That's how my family lost our true clothes.

Threads imply hands not so different than mine. I hold the seashell to my ear: Who are you, clothes?

After the village, its image persists in thread. It symbols, it banners. What can we do? Sow.

"Elisa, when the bombs fell, you bought new clothes?" I heart-garden. I carry. My blood warms new clothes.

Want to support Gaza weavers in their fight to preserve traditional textile techniques? You can do that at Nol Collective's GoFundMe for a workshop in Cairo. If you can't contribute, please consider signal-boosting.

About Nol Collective: Nol Collective is a conscious fashion collective that produces clothes, goods, and accessories rooted in traditional Palestinian crafts. "the hope is that our garments read like visual manuscripts, humanizing and narrating the collective labor of love behind a garment and the triumph of creativity and heritage in the face of struggle."

Shop at nolcollective.com/ 

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Maggie Dietz, "November" [ID in alt text]

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This Lesbian Poem by Akhaji Zakiya from Lisa C Moore's Does Your Mama Know?: An Anthology of Black Lesbian Coming Out Stories

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don’t hesitate by Mary Oliver

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I will be coming back to this concept. We're not done here

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There is something really magical about the sound of a photocopier photocopying. It feels very substantial. It feels very crunchy. You feel like the machine is putting work into its task, but you also have no fear that it is breaking because it seems so certain and sure of its movement. God damn it's comforting. It makes me want to take the photocopier out into the forest, set up a little fire, and just lean against it while I stare up into the stars knowing that it would copy the stars for me if I would just but have the courage to ask.

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peanut butter by eileen myles

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vampires have been drinking human blood for centuries they don't give a fuck about guys on eight different antidepressants. they were sucking on asbestos factory workers

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There comes a day at the start of each summer when I must put my baseball cap on sideways and go out back to my air conditioner. I gingerly stroke the rusty metal coils over its freon heart and say, "Sup, home skillet? Wake up, it's 1995!"

And the air conditioner says, "Oh snap, for real? I thought it was much later. I feel so old."

In a goofy voice I say, "Yeah, it's like 2024 or something... not!"

It laughs nervously. It says, "As if!"

I tell it, "Take a chill pill, it's really 1995."

"Then I'm only 5 years old? Wack."

I nod. "Yeah, duderoni. Go ahead and start up for me one more time. It's gonna be a scorcher."

It shudders. Something rattles deep inside it. Slowly, the fan starts to spin. Faster, faster, it whirls. The air conditioner laughs in relief. "I feel young!" it says. "I feel so young!"

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rip the protagonist of the novel im writing you would’ve loved mcr

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You Marry a Mermaid

You marry a mermaid and the first month you spend on land, teaching her about citrus. Lemons. Limes. Grapefruits. But not grapes?

No, grapes are not citrus.

You love the way she says "grapefruit."

Grapes froot.

You marry a mermaid and the second month you spend under water, learning about coral, tides. How sound flows differently.

You marry a mermaid and you spend the third month on land teaching her about warm colors. Red, yellow. Pink. They exist underwater, of course, but they appear different here, this atmosphere (air) splitting the prism differently than that atmosphere (water).

You marry a mermaid and you spend the fourth month under water learning about heat. You have heat on land, of course, but here there are volcanoes, minuscule to what you think of as a volcano. She teaches you how to enjoy the liminal space between the scalding water and the icy ocean depths.

You marry a mermaid and you spend the fifth month on land teaching her about potatoes. She makes a delightful sound when she tries her first fried potato. The texture almost unbearably crispy. You spend three days on a boardwalk eating potatoes.

When she tries cheese...

...when she tries cheese... on potatoes...

The memory of that expression on her face is worth every jewel, every coin, ever to pass through your fingers, from birth to death.

You marry a mermaid and you spend the sixth month under water learning about the color blue. You think you know the color blue, you've seen the sky, you've seen birds.

You have seen art.

She cups your face with her webbed hands and stares at you with an intensity you did not realize could be experienced in mortal flesh and asks you to say Blue.

"Blooo."

She loves how you say the word, how your tongue

curls like a wave to craft the sound

like you were taught

on land

where speaking is so different

because your tongue is reacting to a throat full of air

not water filtered into something breathable

by magic that

you do not

understand.

You marry a mermaid.

You spend every other month on land, the opposing under water.

You live.

Happily beyond reason.

For years beyond memory.

You marry a mermaid.

"Blooo."

"Grapes fruit."